


Add it Up

by dead flowers (luxurias)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Bloodplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-05-24
Updated: 2004-05-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:47:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22851988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxurias/pseuds/dead%20flowers
Summary: Days pass and the same themes are revisited in his mind, the same pictures urging him onward. Body pressed against the wall, thin lips pressed against his, devouring him.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Kudos: 4





	Add it Up

**Author's Note:**

> Based off the Violent Femmes song "Add it Up". Written for hpvalensmut.

He had detached himself from life. From anything that had to do with his life. Anything that reminded him of his godfather. There was no need to dwell on the past, yet he couldn't find it in himself to move on and into the future. 

Days were stagnant and he took long walks along the lake. The giant squid's tentacles squirming up and out of the water in an ignored waving gesture. He didn't think, just walked. His hair was more unkempt than ever; it seemed he'd stopped caring about anything. 

Faces blurred past him in the corridors. He refused to focus on any of them, even when they were calling out his name, begging for him to come back to reality. A mix of red and brown swirled in the corner of his eye, but he didn't stop. He didn't want to stop. He needed to just keep moving. Perpetual motion flowing into lasting insomnia flowing into wasted moments.

Shoved against a wall he finally stopped, his world swimming back into focus. "Watch where you're going, Potter," an unctuous tone resonated in his ears, the boy giving him a light shove before mincing off. He stood there, breath caught in his throat longing for the other to turn around and stride up to him, planting a firm kiss on his lips. It didn't happen. 

Potions class and he is focused on the blond's trousers, unable to pay any mind to the lesson being proffered before him. Eyes draw up from crotch to lips, as he licks his own. He needs a kiss. Not wants, but needs. A fist slams down on the table and he is broken from this reverie. 

"Detention!" And he is once again prevented from stopping the Slytherin in the hall after class. He is once again prevented from seeking solace in that warm inviting mouth - the same one that spills vitriol without a second glance. Angry he storms out of the classroom uncaring of what the consequences may be. 

Days pass and the same themes are revisited in his mind, the same pictures urging him onward. Body pressed against the wall, thin lips pressed against his, devouring him. Groin grinding against his own, hands fumbling for buttons. He no longer wants to kiss him. He wants to be screwed, to be fucked, to be taken. To screw, to fuck and to take him. 

Body slammed against the wall, fist connecting with face. He's number one, big man at Hogwarts and his fist is pounding into the unattainable. Blood leaks out nose and down lips tainting tongue with iron flavour as he leans in cleaning up the mess, delving into the struggling mouth.

Shoved to floor, and lips brush robe sleeve as he stares up at retreating form. His own fingers go to his lips and find remnants of blood. Laughter floods the corridor and he stands up and storms off. Going against the throng of students, like swimming against the current, he makes his way to the stairs that lead down to the kitchens. 

He continues on, down into the dungeons and deeper into the castle until he is certain he won’t be found. Voices ring out and he ducks into an alcove, his object of fixation sauntering past, a fag hanging from his lips, lit and smoldering.

“You shouldn’t - it’s bad for your health,” he says only to find it shoved between his own lips, taking in a deep drag. Choking he tries to hand it back but finds that it has already been replaced. He’ll have to keep it. The two hulking forms that are with his object grunt and wander off. He has no clue where they are going. 

Relaxing into the rhythm of inhale exhale cough hack cough repeat, he leans against the wall. His hand grasps leg, snaking up and into trousers, wrapping around cock. Words fumble past lips. An array of grunts, gasps, grumbling, groans and grousing. Harder, not too hard, not hard enough, more, less, too many clothes, too few, what if we get caught? 

Fingers come slicked slide in, pumping in and out, growing in number before being replaced by his cock. Thrusting, pounding, sliding in and out. Hands pressed against the wall for support as words cease to exist. Parting kisses and disgruntled stares, unsure of what had really happened. Did he get what he wanted, or did he still want more? 

Owl arrives at breakfast in anonymous scrawl, begging to be read. _My room midnight. Password ‘Supercilious‘. Don’t ask. Stairs to the left, third door on the right._ He tucks it in his robe, smiling like a goon. Red and brown swirling in the corner of his eye again. Eggs congealing on his plate as he pokes at them, eating toast. 

Day passes slow and he is restless, ready to pounce. Surreptitious glances across the aisle, counting down the hours until bed. Early to bed, early to rise, sleep comes easy unless waiting for a prize. Quarter ‘til and sneaking under cloak he makes his way through the castle. “Supercilious,” and up the stairs and into the room. The only bed with curtains still open motions him in as the cloak drops. 

Frantic kisses and closing drapes; murmured charms and clothing torn. Hands memorizing skin, finding intricacies and erogenous zones. His mouth leaves trails of purple along alabaster skin, fair hairs increasing in breadth. 

Start off slow and increase pace. Questions asked and moans replace quiet breaths. Unencumbered decisions ebb with the give and take. Pant gasp moan thrust thrust hard harder hardest softening. He rests above, body moving as breath is gained. 

Counting what should have could have would have been. Never again and kicked out of bed. It was great but no one can know. Cloak skulks out, tail between his legs. Confused and angry once more. He slams his fist against the walls all the way back to his own room. Knuckles bruised bloodied and sore; a gentle reminder. Slinks into bed at half past two. Lays awake has to keep going, can’t stop again.


End file.
